


Mr. Congeniality

by houseofcannibals



Category: Hannibal (TV), Miss Congeniality (Movies)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Relationship, Drag Queens, Fluff and Crack, Hannibal is a former drag queen, M/M, Miss Congeniality AU, Will is a scruffy FBI agent, naturally they fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-07-27 09:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16216529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofcannibals/pseuds/houseofcannibals
Summary: After freezing up at a crucial moment during a mission and getting another agent shot, FBI Special Agent Will Graham knows his job is on the line. So when his partner, Agent Katz, offers him a chance to redeem himself by catching the madman targeting the Miss United States Pageant, Will knows he doesn't have a choice. Even if it means putting on a dress.With the help of former drag queen turned pageant coach, Hannibal Lecter, the scruffy, bearded Will is plucked, tucked, cinched, and painted to blend in with the other contestants. But as he hunts for a dangerous killer, Will faces other perils he never expected: his fears of being stared at; the unfamiliar world of female bonding; walking in heels; and, most unnervingly of all, the attention of a demanding pageant coach who may be harboring some deadly secrets... and the fact that Will might be falling in love with him.Someone's about to learn that they should never mess with an agent in a dress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedFive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFive/gifts).



> This story began life as a ridiculous conversation between myself and RedFive one drunken evening while watching Miss Congeniality. Red, I'm sorry it has taken so long—happy VERY LATE birthday! Long story short, the first draft of this was too cracky for my liking and I had developed serious feels about it by then, so I'm gradually rewriting it. Hopefully it will be worth the wait!
> 
> While this story will require some suspension of disbelief, it is inspired by my own love and respect for drag. I love the idea of the shy, self-conscious Will finding empowerment and confidence in his own body through the art form. Plus, Hannibal has all the hallmarks of drag diva.

Every pair of eyes fell on him the moment he entered the room. Will directed his own at the floor. There was nothing he hated more than being stared at. 

He shuffled over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup, grateful when he heard conversations start to pick up again. Before he came in, some of them had almost certainly been about him. Perhaps all of them. He accepted that. He had, after all, royally screwed up. And the bureau had a long memory. 

But the murmurings about him being unstable had started long before last night, when his freakout in the line of duty had gotten one agent shot and left his partner with a broken arm. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, with a pang of dread, until Director Crawford called him into his office for a "talk about his future at the bureau." A talk which ended with him handing over his badge and gun.

“Hey sunshine.”

Will jumped, slopping hot coffee down his, admittedly, already stained shirt. Beverly grinned. She was leaning against the wall with her favorite red leather jacket draped over her shoulders. Beneath it, Will could see her arm wrapped in plaster in its sling.

He could still hear the  _crack_ it had made when it had broken. Beverly's scream. 

“I didn’t think you’d be in today,” Will murmured, grabbing a handful of paper napkins, unable to meet her eye. “Didn’t they give you any time off?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t take it. I’ve had worse injuries playing tennis. Pour me a cup, will you?”

Will poured the coffee and stirred in a drop of milk, no sugar, just the way she liked it. “Did, uh… did Crawford say anything about last night?”

“Look, don’t worry about Crawford. Don’t annoy him, don’t say anything, and  _ don’t _ argue.” 

With the last point, she wagged a spoon at him sternly for emphasis. Will handed her the polystyrene cup of coffee and folded his arms across his chest, his face creased in a frown.

“I won’t _argue_ ," he muttered. "When do I ever argue? I might have a heated discussion with someone when they’re being especially obtuse, but-”

“Is this you not arguing, Will?” Beverly said, an eyebrow raised. “Because you suck at it.”

Before Will could reply, Director Jack Crawford stormed into the briefing room, and the agents scrambled to take their seats. Will followed Beverly to a desk near the back and hunched over his coffee, staring determinedly at the rims of his glasses. He felt Crawford’s eyes settle on him, but did not lift his own to meet them. 

“Morning everybody,” Crawford said from his podium at the front. “First order of business - I know you’re all concerned about Agent Lass’s condition, so I’m happy to report, Miriam’s going to be fine. She’ll be out of the hospital in two weeks. She says she’s expecting lots of gifts.”

A brief murmur of laughter passed through the room. Will did not join in. He could not shake the image of Miriam lying on the floor of the diner the previous night in a pool of her own blood, mumbling to Crawford as she fought to remain conscious that she was sorry she’d messed up, and Crawford comforting her, telling her not to be sorry, that she’d done a great job, all the while glaring at Will across the room as the ambulance screamed in the distance. Miriam had taken a bullet just above the elbow, at close range where it did the most damage, and there’d been murmurings that she might lose the arm. All because Will had frozen up at the crucial moment, unable to pull the trigger.

“So much for the good news,” Crawford continued, when the chuckling had petered out. “We received another letter from the Dragon.”

There was a faint stirring as everyone in the room seemed to sit up a little straighter. An eerie silence always followed the madman’s name—if it was, in fact, a man. The profilers thought so, Will among them. But all the feds really knew for sure about the self-described Red Dragon was that they were crazy. 

That, and they had no qualms about taking human life.

“Arson. Explosives. Poison. This guy never works the same way twice,” Crawford said. He clicked a button on his pointer, and the Dragon’s latest letter appeared on the screen behind him. White letters on a black background, the lines scattered erratically across the page. A visual poem created by a lunatic. 

“The only thing we know for sure is we get these letters full of incomprehensible riddles, and then he strikes and suddenly the clues make sense.” Crawford sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired; he had been at the hospital with Lass half the night. “This one is down in Intelligence. Hopefully we’ll get a lead before somebody gets killed. In the meantime, Katz—get a team together.”

Beverly looked up from the photocopy of the Dragon’s letter she’d been scanning. “Sir, you want me to take point? Even with my arm in a sling?”

“For five years, you’ve been talking about running an op. Last night, you earned it. Even with one arm tied behind your back—or in this case, wrapped in plaster—you’re still one of the finest agents we have. Pick your team. I want preliminaries by three.”

He scanned the room with his signature scowl. “That’s it.”

Murmuring and the screech of chairs being pushed back. Beverly bit her lip, obviously pleased. Will patted her on the shoulder, gently, then got up and hurried after Crawford as he strode from the room. 

“Sir? Can we talk about what happened last night?”

Crawford kept walking. “There’s nothing to talk about, Graham. You froze up. End of story.”

“No arguments sir, none whatsoever. But-”

“But nothing. There’ll be a hearing in two weeks. Until then, you’re out of the field.”

Will swallowed. “The hearing is warranted… I expected it. But wouldn’t my time be better spent working on the Dragon case?”

“Forget it.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m the best profiler you’ve got, and I’m experienced with decoding. I really think I could contribute-”

Crawford rounded on him so suddenly that Will almost slammed into him. “Like you contributed last night? By standing idle while one agent was shot and your partner had her arm twisted so far behind her back that it broke?” 

The anger radiating from Crawford was palpable. Will stared hard at the rim of his glasses, but Crawford grabbed his shoulder and pushed the glasses up his nose, forcing Will to look at him. 

“I’m going to save the rest for the review board,” Crawford said. The vitriol in his tone would have made a lesser man weep. “And you are going to bury yourself in a mountain of paperwork. This discussion is over.” 

He stepped into his office, slamming the door in Will’s face.

Will stood, frozen, much as he had the previous night. His lip was trembling.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Will flinched. But it was only Beverly. Her face was kind.

“Tough break,” she said. “Want to buy me lunch?” 

“I’m sure half the department has offered, what with you putting together the task force,” Will muttered. 

“Hence why I’m giving you the honor,” Beverly said, with a big smile. “Since you couldn’t get on the task force if you tried, so I don’t need to feel guilty about it.” 

She saw his face fall, and rolled her eyes. “Come on, you big baby. We both know I’m going to keep you in the loop. So you sit behind a desk for a few weeks and keep out of trouble, big deal. You’ll be back in the field dodging bullets before you know it.” 

“I’m not so sure. I’ve never seen Crawford this mad.”

“He’ll get over it. I don’t blame you for what happened and I doubt Miriam does, either. Maybe they’ll make you retake your firearms competency test and see a therapist for a few weeks. No sweat. So—lunch?”

Will nodded and forced himself to smile. But it  _ was  _ a big deal. And he knew that Beverly knew it, too.

The rest of the day passed in a miserable, paperwork-filled blur.  He had never been so grateful as he was that night to return to his lonely apartment. The dogs greeted him at the door and lapped at his hands as Will trudged inside and fell into his favorite chair. He fumbled under the seat for the bottle of scotch whisky and the glass he’d left there for just such an occasion, and poured himself a generous measure. He didn't bother to put the lights on. He didn’t need them. 

He got up only once, to let the dogs out. On the way back, he refilled their bowls and got himself some ice. Soon after, he fell asleep in his chair, the dogs curled up around his feet and the bottle of whisky cradled in his lap. 

When he dreamt, his dreams were uneasy. 

*

Despite the mountain of paperwork awaiting him the next morning, Will’s attention was elsewhere. Phrases from the Dragon’s latest letter had haunted him all night long—words of violent religious fervor tinged with a distinct contempt for human life. The same as every other letter they’d received from him, and yet something about it struck Will as forced. Counterfeit. The work of a person who'd run out of ideas. 

Or a very clever forger.

He had woken early with a stiff neck, full bladder, and mild hangover, convinced he was on the verge of a breakthrough. Now he hunched over his desk at the bureau, staring at a photocopy of the letter. Thinking.

The Dragon opened by claiming he was in “Misula, Montana,” which Will doubted very much. He’d never given any indication of his location before, and he did not strike Will as one who wanted to be caught. Besides, there was no “Misula” in Montana; there was a  _ Missoula _ , but Will doubted he was there, either. The letter continued in the manner they were all very familiar with by now, the ramblings of a madman with a god complex:

> _ I revile the misnomers you have given me _
> 
> _ Misinformed sinners and liars _
> 
> _ Before me you rightly tremble _
> 
> _ Mistaking my majesty for cruelty _
> 
> _ But fear and misery are not what you owe me _
> 
> _ You owe me awe… _

Will rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. There was more, but he had it memorized by now anyway.

Something about it itched at him. Yes, it was exactly like something the Dragon would send. Perhaps  _ too  _ much like it, if that was possible. Some of the phrases were near identical to lines from one of the previous letters, which a newspaper had somehow gotten hold of and carelessly printed in full, much to the bureau’s displeasure. Will supposed it was possible that the maniac might eventually start repeating himself. But it didn’t seem likely. This one had an unlimited supply of crazy, Will thought.

And the repetition of the prefix “mis,” again and again throughout the letter. That was something.

Will saw a pendulum swing behind his closed eyes. In its wake, he saw Miss Leeds, one of the Dragon’s victims, killed in an explosion at a wedding dress sample sale in Atlanta three months earlier. The Dragon disproportionately targeted events attended by a lot of women. In Will’s profile, he’d written that the Dragon was a middle-aged white male, likely disfigured in some way (or believing he was), almost certainly impotent, resentful of beautiful young women he couldn’t have. Miss Leeds had been twenty-seven and beautiful. Will had found her arm amongst the rubble, severed at the shoulder, the engagement ring still on her finger. Forever Miss Leeds, never Mrs. 

And then it clicked.

He grabbed the photocopy and took off at a sprint, sending the stack of files on his desk flying and not caring. Beverly wasn’t in her office. Will made towards the briefing room and nearly collided headlong with her in a corridor. She was walking with Agents Price and Zeller, who glanced at Will with distaste.

“I figured it out!” he said, thrusting the photocopy at her, which had been viciously attacked with his red pen. “I was trying to create a content-based pattern similar to his previous letters, but then it hit me. He used a signifier! In this case, the word “miss.” And then the subsequent letters-”

“Will…” Beverly began, raising her good hand.

“Will you let me finish? It’s the Miss United States Pageant!”

Beverly nodded. “Yeah. Intelligence thought so, too. They figured it out an hour ago.” She pressed the crumpled photocopy back into Will’s hand. “You want to sit in on this briefing? I won’t tell Crawford if you don’t.”

Chagrined, Will followed at their heels as the trio continued down the corridor and into the briefing room, where a few other agents were waiting. Beverly had assembled a decent team. Will wasn’t overly fond of Jimmy Price or Brian Zeller (who had made no secret of the fact that they weren’t fond of him, either) but he couldn’t deny that they were good at what they did. They probably wouldn’t freeze with their fingers on the trigger.

“Okay, what have we got?” Beverly said, perching on a desk at the front of the room. Will hovered at the back, picking through a tray of donuts someone had left out. He wasn’t usually one for sweets, but the way the day was going, he felt he’d earned one.

“The Miss United States Pageant,” one agent began, handing out files around the room. He did not offer one to Will. “This year held in sunny San Antonio, Texas. Home of the Alamo.”

“I forgot the Alamo,” Price said, and grinned at his own joke. Zeller rolled his eyes.

“The pageant lasts three days. You got preliminaries, press conferences, the telecast—which goes out live. It’s a logistical nightmare.”

“Not just a babe-fest,” Zeller commented. It was Price’s turn to roll his eyes.

Beverly rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Jesus, and we’ve only got forty-eight hours until it all kicks off. Okay, gentlemen. Where do we start?”

The room fell silent. Price opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You might want to call the network and pageant people,” Will said, quietly, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “Set up a meeting."

“Thanks Mr. Freeze, but we don’t really need the help of a desk jockey,” Zeller muttered. A few of the other men snickered, and Will flushed. 

Beverly tossed a ball of paper at Zeller’s head. “Cut it out. Will’s right—we’ll probably need their cooperation at some point."

“What about jurisdiction?” asked Price.

“The Dragon’s been our territory from the start, so that shouldn’t be a problem” Will said, around another bite of his donut. Jelly spurted out and dripped onto his shirt, raising another round of snickering. He ignored it, dabbing at himself with a paper towel. “Might be worth calling the San Antonio office, though. Grease some wheels so they don’t feel like we’re taking over their turf if we need manpower and tech support.” 

“That’s good thinking, Will,” Beverly said. “Alright. Now we know the Dragon loves to make a splash, so his target will probably be public. One of these outdoor prelims, maybe even a live broadcast.”

“Telecast is at the convention center,” Zeller murmured, his attention directed toward the glossy brochure for the pageant he was flipping through. “So we’re gonna need surveillance on the interior perimeter.”

“No, we’re going to need a lot more than that,” Beverly mused, tapping her pen against her bottom lip. “There’s about a million places where only these bikini-stuffers can go. Backstage areas. Hotel rooms. Things like that.”

She glanced at Will, who nodded.

“I think we need to get someone in there,” he agreed. “Replace one of the contestants. It’s the only way to guarantee we’ll have a bird's eye view—from the stage, the changing rooms. Everywhere.”

Zeller straightened up out of his slouch, suddenly interested. “Undercover. I like it.”

Price snorted. “I could count on one hand how many agents in this office could pass as beauty queens, and I’d still have fingers to spare.” Beverly gave him a disapproving look, and he threw his hands up, shrugging. “What? I’m not being catty, just realistic. For one, there's hardly a balanced ratio of male to female agents around here, so that limits out talent pool significantly. Don't blame me; blame decades of systemic misogyny. Secondly, have any of you ever actually  _ watched  _ a beauty pageant? The clue’s in the title—they don’t let just anyone in. And–present company aside obviously, boss–our beloved female field agents do tend to have a certain… rugged look.”

“I had a Miss United States wall calendar growing up,” Zeller added, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Liked to know they were smiling down on me when I went to bed.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” Bev muttered. She huffed out a frustrated breath, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “Christ, I hate to say it, but Price might be right. I can’t think of a single field agent that wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb up on that stage.”

Zeller threw a dirty look in Will’s direction. “Not to sound like a kiss-ass, Bev, but you could have done it. If Mr. Freeze over here hadn’t broken your arm.”

Beverly, to her credit, didn't even blink. “Yeah, right. Good one, Zee. Okay… Let’s dig through the personnel database, see who’ll look good in a dress. Price—think you can work some photoshop magic for us?”

Price cracked his fingers. “My pleasure.”

He opened his laptop and began to tap away. The others pulled up their chairs. Will hovered at the back, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. 

“What about Starling?” Zeller offered. “Classic beauty, very girl-next-door.”

“Maternity leave,” Beverly sighed. “Hmm. Do a search for female field agents under thirty-five. We’ll go through them all if we have to.”

Thirty minutes later, they’d exhausted the list of candidates, and the tone had descended into frivolity. All it took was for Price to pull Zeller’s picture, and suddenly they’d seen the man in a floral bathing suit and three different sequin-spangled evening gowns. Zeller stood up and took a bow, then announced he had “the one” and whispered something in Price’s ear. Price grinned, and pulled Crawford’s pic.

“Oh, this is going to end in tears,” Beverly muttered, putting a hand over her face as Price put Crawford in the pink bathing suit. 

“It’s not really my color, is it?” Crawford said from the doorway. Price nearly jumped out of his seat. 

“Sir… We were just looking for someone to go undercover at the pageant,” Beverly said, looking strained. “Things got out of hand.” She gave Price a pointed look, and Crawford’s picture disappeared from the screen.

“I’m the best you’ve got?” Crawford said. “Doesn’t inspire much confidence.” He frowned at Price, who was furiously examining his nails. “Get back to work, all of you. And Graham—shouldn’t you be at a _desk_?”

“Yes sir,” Will murmured, turning to leave as Crawford stormed out. Beverly shot him an apologetic look.

“Hold up, hold up— just one more…” Price murmured, typing rapidly. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Will turned and saw his own picture appear on screen. He groaned. “Guys, come on. That’s not funny.”

Price hit a few keys, and the full-length picture of Will from his personnel file was suddenly stripped of the rumpled suit and tie—and adorned in a floor-length gown. Zeller laughed... but it became uncertain even as it left his mouth. 

“Huh,” Price said, tilting his head. “That… Hell, Graham, you make a pretty lady.”

“The beard kills it for me,” Zeller said. “Can you see what he’d look like without it?”

“Knock it off,” Will said, angry now. “Seriously. You’ve humiliated me—mission accomplished. This isn’t funny anymore.”

Price ignored him, fiddling with the picture until Will's jaw was smooth and clean shaven. An odd silence fell.

“Wow,” Beverly murmured. “I haven’t seen you without a beard since our first week at the academy, Will. I forgot how young you look under that thing.”

Will was staring hard at the wall, refusing to look at the monitor, an angry tick in his jaw. So he didn’t see Price make a few adjustments, elongating the mess of dark curls, smoothing out the thick brows, highlighting the cheekbones. Finally, he added a touch more color to the tightly-pressed lips, then sat back in his chair, surprised and a little in awe of what he’d done. 

“Will,” Beverly said, quietly. “Look at yourself.”

Reluctantly, Will looked. At first, he didn’t recognize himself. Then the tight frown slipped off his face, and his lips parted in surprise. 

“You’re kind of… beautiful,” Zeller said—then coughed gruffly, embarrassed. 

Humiliation rose in Will’s throat like bile. 

“Great,” he muttered. “So now I know I have a promising career as a drag queen ahead of me when Crawford kicks my ass out of the bureau at my hearing. You might want to hit save on that, by the way, because you’re not going to be seeing it again.”

And with that he left the room, angry and hurt in equal measure. 

*

Beverly found Will an hour later in the gym, where he’d been hiding. He was kickboxing a rubber dummy, his skin sheened with a light, dewy sweat. She couldn’t help but think how slim and supple his body looked out of the ill-fitting suits she was used to seeing him in. Even when they’d gone through the academy together, it had been rare to see him out of the jeans and baggy plaid shirts he favored. 

But she’d been his roommate; she’d seen him in his underwear. He had a narrow waist that could easily be pulled and shaped into an elegant hourglass with a little corsetry. His arms were muscular, but no more so than her own—more toned than anything else. And hadn’t she once thought (with a jealousy that had surprised and amused her) what nice legs he had? 

Might as well call a spade a spade, she thought. Will Graham was, undoubtedly, a very pretty man. 

But convincing him of that would be another matter entirely. 

“Will,” she called.

He ignored her, delivering a sharp left hook to the dummy’s jaw, his face closed off to her. 

“Will,” she said again, coming to stand behind the dummy, putting her hands on its shoulders. He finally met her eye, his own blazing with misery at what, she knew, he had perceived as an attempt to embarrass him. “Listen… At least hear me out.”

“Listen to what?” he muttered, yanking the dummy out of her reach and hitting it again, and again. “I’m sure you all had a big laugh—let’s all laugh at poor, mad Will Graham; unstable Will Graham, scraped past the bureau’s screening tests by the skin of his teeth, ha ha. But I’m not laughing, Bev. I’m going to lose my  _ job  _ in two weeks because I… because I couldn’t follow through. What good is an agent that can’t follow through, huh? And this job is everything to me—you know that.” 

“Yeah I know that. Don’t forget I know you better than any of those other guys—we went through the mud, and the shit, and the sweat and the tears to get here together, remember? That’s why I need you to  _ listen  _ to me, because I’m trying to help you save your job.”

Will grunted, but she saw his face soften somewhat. “Alright. I’ll listening.”

“Okay good.” She paused, her hands on her hips, unsure how to phrase what she needed to say. Eventually, she sighed. “I want you to go undercover at the pageant. As one of the contestants.”

Will froze. Bev saw his jaw trembling.

“Hear me out,” she said again.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Will demanded, kicking the mannequin in the head to punctuate his words. “Is this a _joke_ to you?”

“No joke,” Beverly said, trying to keep her voice calm, soothing. “Will, I know you can do it. You’re an exceptional agent—yes, even after the other night. I know I can count on you. I need you to do this.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“You’d be saving lives. There are fifty girls competing in that pageant.”

“You think those pageant girls won’t spot a man in a dress from a mile away?” Will snapped. 

“We’d create a disguise for you. The right wig, a little makeup. Cinch that waist in, pad those hips…”

“Beverly, I’ve got an Adam’s apple and hair on my chest!” Will yelled, and then regretted it. The few other agents who’d been working out nearby had stopped to listen. A few were already chuckling. He lowered his voice, his cheeks flushed with angry color. “Not to mention… you know. Something between my legs.”

Beverly fixed him with a look he was very familiar with. It was the look she’d given him on the morning of exams when he'd  said he wasn’t prepared, even after a week of intense cramming together. A look he’d seen halfway through a grueling obstacle course when he’d gasped that he couldn’t go on. A level, no-nonsense look that said  _ I know what I’m talking about, and you will listen to me. _

“Even with an Adam’s apple and hair on your chest and whatever else, you’re the best agent we have for the job. We can contour your neck. We can shave your chest. And as for the other thing…” She shrugged. “Well, you might want to Google what  _ tucking  _ is.”

Will swallowed, now painfully aware how many people were listening in. He punched the dummy again, halfheartedly, his shoulders slumped. “Why are we talking about this like it’s something that might actually happen?”

“Because you’d be good at it. Because it's our best shot of catching this guy. And because, if we do catch the Dragon and save the pageant, you’ll be right back in Crawford’s good graces.”

“Back in his good graces. By dressing up in ruffles and sequins and pretending to be some preening pageant girl who goes by the name of, what,  _ Wilhelmina Freebush _ , and all she wants is world peace? Just a sideshow attraction for everyone to laugh at.”

“It wouldn’t be like that. You’d be part of the undercover team.”

“Right. In a thong.”

Beverly spread her hands. “I never said thong. You’re welcome to wear a thong if you like, but that’s up to you. We’ll make sure your outfits are… tasteful.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure dressing up like a beauty queen will be real  _ tasteful _ .”

She folded her arms. “Are you embarrassed about wearing women’s clothing? Is that what it is, Will? Are you ashamed to think someone might actually mistake you for a woman?”

Will seemed surprised. “Not at all. Look, if you were asking me to put on a dress and, I don’t know, lecture a class at the academy—sure, it’d take some getting used to, but I’d do it. But you’re asking me to enter a beauty pageant, for christ’s sake! That’s a world I don’t understand. You’re asking me to go amongst women who actually  _ want  _ to be judged just based on their look, on their bodies… Forget the fact that I’m a man—that’s a world I just don’t  understand. Why would any woman put herself through that willingly?”

Beverly shrugged. “A chance to see the world, earn a scholarship. Maybe broaden your horizons. Meet new people.”

“So join the marines.”

She smiled. “I’m not saying I understand why women enter beauty pageants. But that lack in judgement is hardly worthy of a death sentence. I know you don’t want to see any of them get hurt. And they won’t—not with you in their midst, protecting them. What do you say?”

She knew she had him then, and part of her felt awful for playing that card, but it was the only way. Will couldn’t help but picture what would happen if the Dragon got his way. And when he pictured it, he wouldn’t be able to say no. 

Will’s jaw was tight. He stared at his feet. “I’d have to do it all? The big hair, the makeup? The smiling and twirling?” 

“Yes.”

“I’d have to wear the bathing suit?”

“You’d have to wear the bathing suit. Are you saying yes?”

He didn’t answer for what felt like a very long time. Finally, he gave the smallest of nods, his gaze still firmly fixed upon the floor.

Beverly grabbed him and held him in a tight half-hug, her broken arm sticking out awkwardly between them. “You’re not going to regret this, Will. Come on, get washed up. I’ll buy you a coffee, and then we’re meeting with the pageant organizers in an hour.”

They began to walk toward the showers, Beverly’s good arm still wrapped around his waist. Will had the strange sensation that he was sleepwalking. The decision he had made did not yet seem real. 

“Where will I keep my gun?” he murmured, dazedly. 

Beverly patted his rear. “No place I want to know about,” she said.


	2. Chapter 2

The  office was generously sized and elegantly decorated—eggshell walls, a wide glass desk, heavy silk drapes framing the large windows. The pleasant scent of lilies hung in the air. The walls were lined with life-size portraits of former winners, all resplendent in their sashes and crowns. Their pearly smiles assaulted Will from all sides. He stared out the window as Beverly talked, wishing he were anywhere else in the world.

“So you see, the best course of action will be for a member of our team to go undercover,” Beverly finished, her voice slightly strained. 

Across the table, Bedelia Du Maurier watched Beverly with cool, critical eyes. A woman in her late forties, Du Maurier’s history as a pageant queen was written all over her. It was in the way she held herself, poised and affectedly demure; in the perfect set of her golden curls, the tasteful cut of the cream dress that hugged her shoulders and accentuated the curve of her throat. Most of all, Will thought, it was in the viciousness that lurked not far behind the welcome in her smile.

“Am I hearing this correctly?” Du Maurier asked, turning to the man beside her, who placed a hand theatrically on his puffed chest.

“Bedelia, I believe these people want to put one of their agents in the pageant,” Frederick Chilton said, with a simpering half-smile. A man of about Bedelia’s age, he was impeccably dressed in a pinstripe shirt and silk tie that looked expensive. But the patterns clashed, and the color palette was all wrong for his complexion. When he’d shaken their hands, Will had noticed with distaste that Chilton’s own shone with Brylcreem from patting his hair.

Du Maurier looked back at Beverly, raising one perfectly sculpted brow. “Do you expect your agent to win, Agent Katz?”

“No ma’am,” Beverly said. “But we will need your help with the judging, so our agent makes it into the top five. That way, they'll have access to all areas of the stage at all times.”

“Absolutely not."

Will cleared his throat. “Miss Du Maurier, with all due respect, we understand how important this beauty pageant is to you-”

Du Maurier was suddenly on her feet, rising with an effortless poise that only years of careful practice can achieve. Standing in front of one of the portraits, it appeared as if she were wearing the sparkling crown. “Excuse me. This is not a  _ beauty pageant _ , Agent Graham. This is a scholarship program, and it has been ever since my reign. I fully intend on maintaining that credo.”

Beverly raised her hands diplomatically. “Absolutely, Miss Du Maurier. We’re here to protect the contestants. Not to mention yourself and Mr. Chilton, and whoever else might be at risk.”

Chilton touched Du Maurier’s arm. With a toss of her curls, she returned to her seat, reaching for her crystal water glass. 

“There is nothing more important to me than the safety of my girls,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. Her eyes never left Beverly’s face. “I’d rather cancel the pageant than see one of them blown up.”

Chilton nodded. “Especially without their knowledge,” he added.

“We went to the network to have them cancel the pageant, but they refused,” Beverly said. “We can’t force them. We don’t have enough evidence. This is the best option we’ve got.”

“I’m confused,” Chilton said. “What state will your girl be from? All the state winners have already been chosen.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. We recently discovered some disqualifying information about the winner from Virginia. So she’ll be dropping out pretty soon.”

“Oh?” 

Beverly grimaced. “Let’s just say she had a starring role in a little movie called  _ The Screaming of the Lays  _ and leave it at that, shall we?”

“That was _her_?” Chilton said, and then flushed furiously. 

Du Maurier turned her icy gaze on him for a moment, then returned it to Beverly. “Did you have an agent in mind?”

“Um. Yes, actually. But it might take some explaining.”

“Who is your girl?”

Will finally looked up, and raised a hand. “You’re, uh, you’re looking at her.”

At first, Du Maurier seemed confused. She glanced between the pair of them, momentarily rattled. “You mean to say you intend to enter my pageant with your arm encased in plaster, Agent Katz? I won’t allow it.” 

“No, I’ll be strictly behind the scenes. The agent we intend to send in… Well, it’s a little unorthodox but…”

A beat of silence. Then Du Maurier’s eyes widened.

“I will not have my pageant turned into a  _ sideshow _ ,” she spat, her voice still as soft as before, but dripping with venom. “How dare you suggest sending… sending  _ him  _ onto that stage. You’ll turn us into laughing stocks.”

Beverly glanced at Will, who was staring determinedly at his hands, tightly clasped on his lap, through the glass table. “It isn’t like that at all, ma’am. Believe or not, well… Oh, it'll be easier if I just show you.”

She slid a sheet of paper across the desk toward Du Maurier. Du Maurier glared at it, then flipped it over with one alabaster hand. It was a printout of Price’s photoshop, and it was every bit as lovely as the pictures on the wall behind her.

“That's him?” Chilton marvelled, peering over Du Maurier’s shoulder. 

"Yeah," Will muttered, without looking up.

Chilton steepled his fingers and huffed out a breath. “Well that… That’s quite impressive, I must say.”

Du Maurier ignored him. “Do you really intend to do this?” she asked, her voice dangerously soft.

“Yes ma’am, we do,” Beverly said, nudging Will’s foot. He looked up and nodded, his face morose. 

Du Maurier pursed her lips. “Then let me get you Hannibal Lecter’s number.” 

“Hannibal Lecter?”

“A pageant consultant,” Du Maurier said, shortly, punching a few numbers into her phone. “Maybe he can do something to help… this.” She waved her hand in Will’s general direction but did not look at him. Will frowned. 

A bearded man in an unflattering suit scurried into the room. “Yes, Miss Du Maurier?”

“Get these people Hannibal Lecter’s number,” Du Maurier said. “And tuck in your shirt. That will be all.”

The man gave a nervous half-bow and hurried out. Bedelia hissed out a frustrated breath. “My assistant Franklyn Froideveaux,” she said. “A perfectly useless little man. He’ll see you get the number. You can wait in reception until then. Goodbye now.”

And with that, she stood and strode from the room, with Chilton anxiously trotting at her heels.

Beverly looked at Will.

“I think that went well,” she said.

*

Hannibal Lecter, whoever he was, was punctual in answering Beverly’s call. Since time was not on their side, they arranged to meet an hour later at an upscale restaurant nearby. Lecter’s choice. 

When they entered the restaurant, Lecter had already arrived and was sitting at his preferred table sipping a glass of red wine. He stood when he saw them approaching. He was a tall, handsome man of about forty, dressed in a fine plaid suit paired tastefully with a paisley tie. A silk pocket square was tucked in his breast pocket. His hair, brown with just a hint of silver, was combed back from his forehead with exquisite precision. His features were striking. 

Beverly extended her hand. “I’m Agent Katz, we spoke on the phone. This is Agent Graham.”

Lecter shook both their hands in turn. His own was smooth and dry, and Will got the distinct impression that he moisturized with something expensive.

“Hannibal Lecter. A pleasure. I confess, I was left with questions after your call, Agent Katz. Which of you am I to be coaching?”

Will raised a hand, staring at his shoes. But Lecter did not seem surprised. He merely nodded, gave Will a cursory glance up and down, and returned to his seat. 

“That explains why they called me,” he said. His accent was unusual; European, but Will couldn’t place it any more accurately than that. “My, we will have our work cut out for us. Sit, Agent Graham. We have much to discuss. Will you be joining us, Agent Katz?”

Will looked at her desperately, but Beverly shook her head. “I have to some place I’ve gotta be, arrangements I've gotta make. I’ll come collect you boys in an hour. Be good.”

She clapped Will on the back and disappeared out onto the street. Will watched her leave with a lump in his throat. That feeling of sleepwalking had not left him, but something about his present company seemed to demand he be fully present. It was a near-tangible pull, like magnetism, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Lecter was looking at him expectantly. With all the grace of a sack of flour being dropped on a concrete floor, Will sat.

“What a shame I could not coach Agent Katz,” Lecter sighed. “Her hair is perfect. Yours on the other hand…”

Will pushed a hand through his tangled curls. “I’ll be wearing a wig, won’t I, so what does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal,” Lecter said. “If you’ll mistreat an expensive lace front the way you mistreat your own hair, it would be better if I quit here and now.” 

Will glared down at his menu to avoid meeting Lecter’s calm, penetrating stare. “Shall we just order? I think I need a stiff drink to get through this meeting.”

“Are you hungry?” 

“Yeah.”

“Yes,” Lecter corrected him, crisply.

Will shot him a look over the top of the menu. “That’s what I said.”

“It is always ‘yes’ and never ‘yeah,’” Lecter said, with excruciatingly forced patience. “Miss United States is always well spoken and polite.”

“She’s also generally a woman, but that isn’t stopping us,” Will muttered. He felt, rather than saw, Lecter roll his eyes.

The waiter appeared. Lecter addressed him by name, oozing charm as he ordered the venison and another glass of cabernet sauvignon. Will muttered that he’d have the steak, and a very large whisky, straight up. 

There was an awkward silence until the drinks arrived. Will drank half his glass in one gulp, unable to stand Lecter's gaze crawling all over him. He had the uncomfortable sensation of being on a first date that wasn’t going well… Not that he went on many dates to compare it to. 

“So, how long have you been doing this pageant training thing?” he said, to break the silence.

Lecter reached up and straightened the knot of his tie. “I have only coached a handful of girls in this particular pageant,” he said. “Before that, I was known for coaching queens of another sort.”

Will stared at him blankly.

“Drag queens,” Lecter elucidated. “Hence why they sent you to me.”

A hot flush crept up Will’s neck and colored his cheeks. “I’m not a drag queen.”

“Does that idea distress you?” Lecter asked, observing Will with the cool detachment of a psychiatrist. “Are you uncomfortable that you might be mistaken for a homosexual?”

Will let out a frustrated grunt. “No. I couldn’t care less about that. But how would you feel in my position, knowing your boss and all your colleagues are going to see you in a dress?”

“I was a drag queen for twenty years,” Lecter said, calmly. “Many, many people have seen me in a dress.”

The food arrived then. Will opened his mouth to say something, but Lecter raised a hand, silencing him. He  cut a small piece of his venison and tucked it into his mouth. His eyes slipped closed, a faint smile crossing his lips as he swallowed.

"The meat is cooked perfectly, Victor," he told the hovering waiter. "Please pass my compliments to the chef."

Will waited until the waiter had scurried off, beaming. "Sorry," he said, gruffly. "This is all happening really fast. I’m not trying to say there’s anything wrong with being a drag queen, or wearing women's clothing, or whatever. But you must see that I’ll be the laughing stock of the bureau for doing this.”

“Even if you save multiple lives?” Lecter said, and Will found he had no answer.

They ate in silence for a while—Lecter observing Will’s lax table manners out of the corner of his eye the whole time. The man ate like he’d been deprived of food for several years.  

Dabbing his own lips with a napkin, Lecter said, “Female impersonation is an art form, just like anything else. In my youth, I won prestigious national pageants five years running. I sewed all of my gowns myself, and there were none like them. I was quite stunning.”

Will was staring intently at his water glass, tracing his index finger around the rim to draw a high, peeling hum. “Then why’d you give it up?”

Hannibal sipped his wine, his face very still. “In the fifth competition, the jealousy of the other queens finally reached a head. There was some… unpleasantness. One tried to push me down a flight of stairs. Another slashed one of my most prized gowns. Petty acts like that. I won the crown, but decided it was time to retire. Two of my competitors tragically passed away in an accident some months later, and another mysteriously disappeared and has not been heard from since. Terrible shame.” 

Will glanced up from the glass. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw a flicker of dark amusement cross Lecter’s face. Then it was gone.

“After that, I became the most sought-after, highly paid consultant in drag pageant history,” Lecter continued, his still, eerie composure regained. “Under my watch, all seven of the queens I coached were crowned. Then someone passed my name to a competitor in the Miss United States pageant, and that was that. Every season, girls would plead with me to train them. For another five years, my girls soared to victory.”

Will took a small sip of his water and went back to playing the glass, the sound now almost painfully shrill. “I sense a  _ but _ .”

He didn’t see it, but Lecter’s face darkened. “The final girl I coached froze like a puddle halfway through her aria from _La Bohème_. Afterwards, she told a reporter from  _ Pageant Magazine _ that I was a psychopath who threatened her and harangued her to within an inch of her sanity. She skipped town shortly after the article was published, and no one knows what happened to her. After that, the phone stopped ringing. I retreated from the pageant scene to pursue my other pleasures; arranging for the harpsichord, dabbling in psychiatry—and of course, the culinary arts.”

Will missed the fleeting smile that crossed the chiseled face again like smoke, then receded. He was still staring at his water glass.

“Bedelia Du Maurier still had your number,” he said.

Lecter chuckled indulgently. “No one would dare throw it away. Slander or no slander, she knows I am the best.”

“And available,” Will muttered. 

Lecter frowned. He reached out and caught the rim of Will’s water glass between his thumb and forefinger, abruptly cutting off the high-pitched sound.

“Will you  _ desist _ ?” he hissed.

Will blinked. “Yeah.”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

Will glared at him. Lecter glared back. They finished their meal in silence, Lecter wincing from time to time when Will’s knife scraped the china. He calmly insisted on paying the bill, despite Will’s protestations that it was on the bureau, and they got up to leave.

“So when are you going to show me a picture of you in drag?” Will said.

Lecter turned and gave him an appraising look that made Will feel like a criminal in front of a jury for the first time. “When you’ve earned it,” he said, and walked out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured two chapters would be a good taste of what tone I'm going for. And I was excited to introduce Hannibal. 
> 
> More soon...!


	3. Chapter 3

Beverly had been busy while Will and Lecter ate. 

She was wrapping up her final call as they stepped out of the restaurant. They found her perched on the hood of her car with her sunglasses on and her phone held awkwardly between her ear and shoulder as she took notes with her one good hand. She thanked whoever it was and extricated the phone, then turned to beam at Lecter.

“Everyone on your list was available,” she said. “And they sang your highest praises, which is a good sign for us.”

Will blinked. “List? When did you have time to send her a list?”

“While you were distracted by the half-masticated cow rolling around in your wide-open trap,” Lecter said.

“Excuse me?  _ What _ is your problem?”

“Boys, boys,” Beverly said, raising her hand. “We  _ really  _ don’t have time for this. Will, we need to get you ready in time for some orientation breakfast thing the day after tomorrow. Miss Du Maurier’s simpering assistant informs me that all contestants are expected to attend, so your absence would be conspicuous. That means you need to be suited and booted—so to speak—and sitting in front of a bagel that you’re too weight-conscious to eat in, let’s see… thirty-seven hours and counting. So please, shut up, and get in the damn car. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Agent Katz,” Lecter said, stepping up to open the passenger side door for her. “I need every second of prep time I can get with this one.”

Will shot Lecter a dirty look, which Lecter ignored, then moved round to the driver’s side. Lecter slid smoothly into the back seat and folded his hands over one knee as Will started the car. 

“Where to?” Will asked. 

“First, we gotta make a pit stop at Dr. Lecter’s house—I figure he’ll want to pack a bag,” Beverly said. She twisted in her seat to flash Lecter a smile, her glasses slipping down her nose. “I already punched your address into the GPS. Did a quick bit of background reading on you while you guys ate. Hope you don’t mind, doctor.”

“Not at all,” Lecter said. 

“In what way is he a doctor?” Will scoffed.

“In the four years of medical school way,” Lecter replied, brushing an invisible spot of lint from his lapel. “It was during my studies in Paris that I first fell in love with the art of female impersonation. I attended a few performances in the evenings after class, then decided I could do better. When I came to America for my residency at Johns Hopkins, the local drag scene was intrigued by my European sensibilities and training. I earned my medical license, but by then I had decided that my true passion lay in sculpting bodies, not healing them.”

“Pretentious ass,” Will muttered under his breath. Beverly smacked him.  

Lecter’s home was practically a mansion. To Will, who had grown up dirt poor following his father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to lake boats on Erie, the towering edifice screamed of family money. 

No wonder Lecter could ditch his medical training at the drop of a hat to pursue a career in dressing up. He had to be loaded. Will felt his half-buried grudge against the rich rise hot and angry in his throat, and swallowed it down with difficulty. It tasted bitter. 

“This won’t take long,” Lecter was saying as he opened the car door and climbed out. Will watched him fasten the button on his expensive suit jacket as he strode toward the porch, and couldn’t contain his disgusted grunt. Beverly rounded on him. 

“Why are you deliberately antagonizing him?” she said. “Has the nice, helpful man offended you in some way?”

“He’s the one who’s been completely antagonistic to me from the second he met me,” Will snapped. 

“Well you better get this out of your system now, because the two of you are going to be spending a  _ lot  _ of time together,” Beverly said. “And Will? This attitude isn’t very becoming of a beauty queen.”

Will grunted again, but didn’t respond. They sat in silence until Lecter emerged from the house ten minutes later, wheeling a small suitcase behind him. A flat white box was tucked under one arm. 

“What’s in the box?” Will said, when Lecter had deposited his luggage in the trunk. 

“That is for me to know and you to find out,” Lecter replied. 

Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Fine. Where’s our next stop?”

“Airport,” Beverly said. “Price and Zeller are going to meet us there. I’ve chartered a flight to a small airfield just outside of San Antonio. There, we’ll rendezvous with the beauty team in the private hangar we’ve rented for your, uh, transformation.”

“Wonderful,” Will muttered. “We need a whole hangar just to put me in makeup and a dress?”

Beverly raised an eyebrow over her shades. “You don’t actually think it’s that simple, do you? It takes more effort than that for  _ me _ to get ready in the morning, and I’m a biological female.”

“Well what else is there?”

“For starters, hair removal,” Lecter said. “We need to remove that adolescent scruff from your cheeks.”

“Thanks, I happen to like my beard,” Will muttered, running a hand over his jaw. 

“And of course, we’ll need to wax you,” Lecter added. “I want you smooth from chin to toes.”

Will glanced at Beverly, and saw her trying to contain her laughter. 

“Then there are those caterpillars that you call eyebrows,” Lecter continued, with a slight lift of his own. “They’ll need to be plucked and shaped. Then manicures, pedicures, tanning, teeth-”

“What are you going to do to my  _ teeth _ ?”

“Hopefully, remove the whisky stains and steak residue.”

“Do you  _ really _ think they’re going to be looking that closely?”

Lecter fixed him with an unamused stare in the rear-view mirror. “It’s a beauty pageant, Agent Graham. It’s their job to inspect and critique every inch of you. The sooner you get that through your head, the easier  _ my _ job will be.”

“We’ll also do a technical briefing,” Beverly said, graciously saving Will from more beauty talk—for the time being. She knew him well enough to see that, behind the hard and unforthcoming demeanor, Will was starting to feel overwhelmed. To panic. “Cameras, earpieces, mics. The whole shebang. I know this is a little unorthodox, Will, but you’ve been undercover before. Under the superficial gloss, this is really no different.”

Will nodded, swallowing thickly. He didn’t look convinced. Beverly settled back in her seat, wincing as a needle of pain shot up her arm. She could feel Will’s discomfort rolling off him in waves. 

“I arranged for someone to look after your dogs,” she said. 

“Thanks,” Will mumbled, but said nothing more for the remainder of the drive.

Price and Zeller were waiting for them on the tarmac, overseeing the loading of several huge black cases of technical equipment. Will ignored them entirely, taking the steps up to the plane two at a time and disappearing inside. 

Beverly watched him go with a sigh. She jumped when her car door opened. But it was only Lecter, and he was offering her his hand. She smiled as he helped her out of the car. Maybe some of his charm would rub off on Will.

But probably not.

“The boys will see that your luggage makes it onto the plane,” she said, as he moved to open the trunk. “I promise they’re reasonably intelligent, despite whatever comes out of their mouths.”

“Thank you, Agent Katz. I will entrust my suitcase to them, but I’d prefer to carry the box myself. It’s precious cargo.”

“You got it.” Beverly stuffed her good hand into her pocket, her shoulders hunched. “Listen… I’m sorry about Will. He’ll warm up to you. Eventually.”

“I’m certain that will be the case,” Lecter said. 

He found Will slumped in a seat at the back of the plane, a silk eye mask pulled over his eyes, his arms folded tight across his chest. 

Lecter stowed the white box carefully in the luggage compartment overhead, then reached down and plucked Will’s eye mask off. Will glared up at him. 

“I can’t sleep on the flight?”

“I need you conscious. We’re going to start your training.”

“What can we possibly do from the plane?”

“We’re going to study. But first…” Lecter pulled a tape measure from his pocket. “I need to measure you. So, up.”

Will begrudgingly obliged. He stood rigid while Lecter took his measurements, dictating each to his phone as he went. When the tape measure wrapped around Will’s waist, Lecter let out an appreciative hum.

“Good. With a little cinching and padding, we should be able to achieve a lovely hourglass.”

“I’m  _ so  _ relieved.”

Lecter straightened up and tucked his tape measure out of sight. “I’m just doing my job, Agent Graham—the same as you. Please try to remember that.”

“Just keep it professional.”

“Or we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

“I don’t find you that interesting.”

Lecter’s lips pulled into a slight smile. “You will.”

Will frowned, spotting Price and Zeller and a handful of other agents watching them from the front of the plane. They were practically eating popcorn.

“We done here? Can I sit down and try to enjoy my last hours out of heels?”

“Be my guest.”

Will sat, groaning as Lecter slid into the seat beside him. Lecter ignored him, pulling out an iPad and thumbing through files until he found the video he was looking for. He propped the device on the tray table, and turned it so Will could see.

“What’s this?”

“Homework,” said Lecter, hitting play.

Will watched as a radiant blonde in a flowing white gown walked across a stage, a pearly smile frozen on her face. 

“What am I watching?”

“Look how she walks,” Lecter said. “Do you see? She’s floating. Lightly ascending from cloud to cloud, towards Heaven.”

“That why her face is so shiny?”

“I’ll concede she’s wearing too much highlighter,” Lecter said, sounding amused. “Which I can assure you will never happen with me doing your makeup. But we’re not looking at her makeup right now. We’re looking at her walk.”

“And why are we looking at her walk?”

“Because yours belongs in a zoo.”

“It’s been working for me for almost thirty years.”

“And how well will it works in heels? How elegant will it look in a swimsuit, or a gown? I’m preparing you for a distinguished beauty pageant, Agent Graham—not for the world’s finest trailer park.”

He pressed pause and moved on to the next video.

“We’ll save the walk for later,” he said. “For now, let’s watch some interviews.”

“Joy,” Will muttered, and sinking deeper into his seat. It was going to be a long flight. 

*

It was very early morning when they touched down in Texas. The sky was still black as tar, and Will was exhausted from listening to former contestant after former contestant explain how desperately she wanted world peace. But he knew the night was far from over. 

The dry heat hit them as they descended the steps onto the tarmac. Will felt a light breeze stir his hair, and a sick unease settled in his stomach. This was real. They were really in Texas, and this… This was really happening. 

He looked at Beverly, who was on the phone with Crawford and paying him no attention. He glanced at Lecter, and found the man watching him steadily. Something about the Lecter’s assured, equanimous gaze calmed Will. He clicked his neck, cracked his knuckles, and followed Beverly across the tarmac, Lecter striding at his side. 

From the outside, the hangar Bev had rented looked like any other. But as soon as they stepped inside, Will was overwhelmed by a flurry of noise and motion. He’d never seen anything like it.

A gaggle of confused FBI agents were fumbling to set up some kind of heat lamp. A trio of hair stylists were carefully unpacking a series of elaborate wigs, dousing them in a fog of hairspray. Stylists pushed racks of gowns across the echoing concrete floor, sequins flashing under the overhead lights like camera bulbs. The constant whir of sewing machines underpinned all, giving the space the feel of being inside the belly of a furious machine. 

“Oh boy,” Will murmured, feeling his throat constrict. 

Lecter put a calming hand on his shoulder and guided him towards a reclining salon chair. “This won’t hurt a bit,” he said.

He was, of course, lying.

Over the course of the next six hours, Will was plucked, waxed, and scrubbed to within an inch of his life. They started by shaving off his beard and trimming his hair to make it fit better under the wig—after getting the tangles out, that is. At the same time as Sweeney Todd was attacking his scalp with a brush, a team of manicurists buffed and trimmed his nails before fitting him with a set of natural-looking acrylics, complete with French tips. 

Meanwhile, someone who described themselves as an “eyebrow technician” threaded, tweezed, and waxed his brows into submission. A dentist gave him a cleaning and whitening and chastised him for not flossing often enough, ignoring Will’s sarcastic request for Novocain. Throughout the ordeal, someone was doing something to the bottom of his feet—but with another man’s fingers in his mouth, Will couldn’t raise his head enough to see.

Eventually, Lecter released him from the salon chair and told Will it was time for body hair removal. Stretching and yawning, Will padded after him barefoot, dodging a harried seamstress struggling under the weight of a pile of shimmering fabrics. He was so relieved to be out of the chair that even the idea of being waxed didn’t seem like such a bad thing. 

Lecter led him inside a curtained-off area, where a stern-looking woman in a black tunic dispensed with any niceties and instead instructed Will to strip off and lie down on the table. Will looked at Lecter.

“You wanna, um, maybe turn around? Or, you know, leave.”

Lecter sighed patiently. “I am a gay man and a licenced doctor, Agent Graham; I have seen it all before. Besides, it will be beneficial for you to grow comfortable with being naked around me.”

“Why exactly?”

“Because someone will need to help you get tucked, padded, and dressed in the morning before we even think about tackling your makeup. So please try to relax. I am a professional.”

“Yeah, that’s what scares me,” Will muttered. Letting out a weary breath, he fumbled to unbutton his shirt and slip off his pants, finally dropping his boxer shorts. The truth was, without his beard, he felt half-naked already. He’d been hiding behind that thing for years.

Lecter’s eyes appraised him briefly, lingering on nothing, and then he nodded. “Get on the table then.”

Will did as he was told, watching nervously as the beautician heated the wax and brought it over on a distinctly surgical-looking metal tray. He had a high tolerance for pain—he’d been stabbed in the line of duty, and broken plenty of bones growing up—but something about the thick, brown goo that the beautician was disinterestedly stirring made his stomach clench in terror. Suddenly, he missed the salon chair of horrors. 

“We’ll start with your chest, since you don’t have too much in that department,” the woman said. She winked. “Ease you in gently.”

Will bit his lip as she slathered on the wax and laid down a strip of paper. He was eternally grateful he didn’t have a lot of hair on his chest or back. His arms and legs though… those were a different story. 

“It’ll only hurt for a second,” Lecter reassured him. 

“Oh, I see we’re past  _ this won’t hurt a bit _ ,” Will muttered—and then the beautician pulled the wax strip off, and all rational thought left his head.

“There we go,” the beautician murmured, holding up the paper, which was now distinctly fuzzy.

“That’s the  _ easy part _ ?” Will hissed through gritted teeth, as she laid down another strip. The woman only smiled. 

By the time she had finished with his chest, Will was sweating profusely. When his arms, knuckles, legs, and feet were silky smooth, there were tears in his eyes. He rolled over and let the beautician wax his shoulders, back, and buttocks, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. His skin was hot and tingly all over.

“Alright,” Lecter said. “Time for the Brazilian.”

Will jerked so hard he almost fell off the table. “No. I’m drawing the line. You’re not going anywhere near…  _ that _ .”

“Agent Graham, all the female contestants are doing it. For the swimsuit round, you understand.”

“You can drop the Agent Graham shit,” Will muttered, rolling onto his back again and glaring at Lecter as the beautician lifted his penis in one gloved hand and smeared the wax over his skin. “We’re having a frank discussion about waxing my balls. I think we’ve reached first-name basis, don’t you?”

“Will, then,” Lecter said, sounding pleased. “And you may call me Hannibal.”

“That’s a— _ ahh _ —a stupid fucking name, you know,” Will said, screwing his eyes shut as the beautician ripped the strip away, taking a chunk of dark, curly hair with it. 

Lecter sounded amused. “I am Lithuanian by birth. And you? Where did you grow up?”

“All over the South,” Will said. He was strangely grateful that Lecter was keeping him talking; it provided some distraction from the agony between his legs. Perhaps that had been Lecter’s intent. “We didn’t settle anywhere long enough for it to feel like—fuck,  _ fuck _ —for it to feel like home.”

“You must have been a very lonely child growing up. Always the new boy at school, always the stranger.”

“Gee, thanks for reminding me.”

“I imagine you still have trouble connecting with people. That’s why you wear glasses without a prescription.”

Will glanced up at him, wincing from more than just the pain. “How did you know about the glasses?”

“I asked Agent Katz about getting you prescription contact lenses. I can’t have my contestant strutting around the stage in those ugly things.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I thought you were going to reveal some secret mind-reading trick.”

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

“Eyes are distracting. So what’s next after the hot wax torture?”

“Changing the subject?”

“Expertly, yes.”

“Hmm. Next it’s time for your facial. Your skin will be practically glowing by the time I’m through with you. Then we’ll apply a light tan to take the ghoulish edge off—you look like you haven’t seen sunlight since you graduated the academy.”

“Sounds about right,” Will said, thinking about all the long nights sitting in cars on stakeouts, the sleepy days staring at case files in poorly lit offices. “Do I get to sleep at any point, or do you intend for me to pass out and land face-first in my oatmeal in the middle of the welcome breakfast?”

Lecter smiled. “You can sleep for a few hours after your spray tan. I want you fresh for your training.”

“And what does that entail?” 

“You’ll see.”

“The suspense is killing me,” Will muttered dryly—then yelped as another stripe of hair parted ways with his nether regions. 


	4. Chapter 4

Will woke from a thin, troubled sleep to see Lecter dangling a pair of high heels in his face.

“Up,” the man said, tossing a lilac robe at him. “Time to learn how to walk in heels.”

Will groaned and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it? I feel like I just closed my eyes…”

“I let you have four hours, which was more than generous. This time tomorrow, you’ll be wearing these in public, so I need you to get  _ up _ .  _ Now _ .”

Grumbling, Will rolled off the narrow cot they’d set up for him in a quiet corner of the hangar and pulled the silky robe on over his boxers. 

“I don’t get to wear real clothes?”

“Not until your wardrobe test,” Lecter said, striding off across the hangar.

“Do I get to eat?” Will called after him.

“You’ve got to work for it,” was Lecter’s reply. 

Tying the sash of the robe around his narrow waist, Will slouched off after Lecter. The man was waiting on a folding chair in an area surrounded by tall mirrors. Will froze when he saw his own reflection, running a hand over his smooth chin. Beverly had been right; he looked much younger without the beard. 

Of course, the plucked, arched eyebrows were also new. He didn’t know how he felt about those yet. 

“Sit,” Lecter instructed. Will did as he was told, and Lecter dropped the heels into his lap. “Put these on.”

Will picked up the pointed pumps. They were satin, pink—and alarmingly high.

“We couldn’t have started with something simpler? Maybe a nice  _ kitten heel _ .”

He grinned, proud of himself for knowing a fashion term—something he’d once overheard in an elevator. But Lecter seemed less than amused.  

“They’re only four inches,” the man said. “If you can conquer these, anything else I put you in will be a breeze. And I won’t let you be caught dead wearing kitten heels on that stage.”

“Oh sure, but you’re okay with me breaking my neck in these?”

“You won’t break your neck,” Lecter said. “But I will break it for you if you don’t put on the shoes and stop wasting my time.”

Grimacing, Will shoved his feet into the heels, noticing for the first time that the pedicurist had painted his toenails with glitter polish, then set them back on the floor with a small  _ clack _ . Lecter made a small gesture with two fingers— _ up _ .

“I hate you,” Will said, clambering to his feet.

“I know,” Lecter said. “Walk.”

Slowly, stiffly, Will managed to walk an almost straight line across the concrete floor, his ankles trembling like those of a newborn foal. He felt like a drunk forced to perform a sobriety test in front of an especially unimpressed trooper. 

“My god,” Lecter said, when Will stumbled to an unsteady stop. “I haven’t seen a walk like that since the old  _ Frankenstein  _ movies.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard,” Will muttered. “How do women do this?”

“Heels were originally worn exclusively by men,” Lecter said, slipping off his own polished oxfords and retrieving a shoebox from beside his feet. “In the fifteenth century, aristocrats in Europe wore high heels to appear more formidable. In the court of King Louis XIV, heels with red soles were worn as a mark of status, indicating nobility and wealth.” 

He slid the lid from the shoebox and removed a sleek black pump with a blood-red sole. 

“Christian Louboutin. Spring collection,” he said. Gracefully, he slipped the shoes onto his feet and rose from his chair. “Watch closely now.” 

He crossed the space toward Will slowly, letting Will get a good look at him. Showing off more than a little. 

“See?” he said, coming to a graceful stop. “It’s all in the buttocks.”

“It takes a very secure man to walk like that.”

“Yes, which is perhaps why you’re struggling,” Lecter said. “You need to have more confidence in yourself, Will.”

“Confidence isn’t the problem. It’s the four-inch stilettos that are tripping me. Literally.”

Lecter appraised him for a moment, his lips pursed. “Turn around,” he said.

“Why?”

“Turn around. I want you to look at yourself.”

Sighing, Will managed to teeter in an awkward semi-circle until he could see himself in one of the mirrors. “What am I looking at?”

Lecter appeared behind him and put a hand on the small of Will’s back. In the heels, he towered over Will. 

“Stand up straight. Pelvis in neutral. Press your chest down, and pull your abdominal muscles in. That’s it.” 

His hands moved over Will as he spoke, his touches light and instructive, almost clinical in their detached precision. 

“Head up. Your chin should always be parallel to the floor. Very good. Now, try again. Hold that pose.”

Slowly, Will began to walk toward the mirror. Lecter watched appraisingly from behind, his hands folded at his midriff. 

“Lead with the ball of the foot, never the heel. There we go. Don’t pick your feet up. Roll your hips. Now, glide.”

“This isn’t the bloody Ice Capades,” Will muttered—but his frustration had been replaced by a quiet determination.  _ He was doing it. _ He still felt like he was going to fall with every step he took, but the shake had gone out of his knees. 

And he looked  _ good.  _ Real good, in fact. The heels elongated his legs and accentuated his smooth calves, making his body look slim and toned. More importantly, they forced him to hold perfect posture, imbuing him with a confidence that was almost entirely alien to him. He felt like he could do anything. 

The thought had barely crossed his mind before he fell flat on his face. 

Lecter appeared over him, moving with the grace of a gazelle—or perhaps, the cheetahs that hunt them. 

“Rule number one of walking in heels,” he said. “We must never get so caught up in admiring ourselves that we trip over our own feet.”

“You put me  _ in front of a mirror _ ,” Will muttered as Lecter helped him up. 

“Better to learn that now than in front of the judges. Let’s go again.  _ Glide _ .”

*

By the time Lecter let him out of the heels, the balls of Will’s feet felt like nails had been driven through them. He didn’t tell Lecter that. No point giving the sadist ideas. 

“Take fifteen,” the man said, graciously. “Eat something, then meet me in wardrobe.”

“Fifteen whole minutes?” Will said. “You spoil me, Doctor.”

He hightailed it towards the craft services table before Lecter could change his mind, wincing with every step. 

Beverly was perched on the edge of the table, eating an enormous breakfast sandwich. She grinned sleepily at Will as he approached.

“How’s it going, beautiful?”

“How do you think?” 

“This might cheer you up; I’ve got your new ID,” Beverly said, putting down her sandwich so she could reach inside her jacket. She handed Will a Virginia driver’s license featuring a black-and-white version of the image Price had photoshopped. Will took one look at the name on the license, and fixed her with an unamused glare.

“Wilhelmina Freebush?”

“I remembered you liked that.”

“Well, my IQ just dropped 10 points.”

“Oh, cheer up. This way, you can tell them you go by Willie. I’m just looking out for you.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“You wanna see what else I got you?”

She pulled a lapel pin from her pocket and dropped it into his palm. It was a tiny American flag.

“Feeling patriotic?”

“It is befitting of the next Miss United States, don’t you think? Also, there’s a tiny lens in there. We’ll see what you see.” 

“Wonderful. So you’ll see me strangling Lecter.”

Beverly raised her eyebrows. “You know what I think?”

“No, enlighten me.”

“I think you’re only fighting with him because you secretly like him. You’re terrible at making friends, Will. Remember when we met? The first words you said to me were to tell me there was a stain on my sweater.”

“There was. And I’m not particularly interested in becoming Lecter’s friend. The light from friendship won’t reach us for a million years.”

As he spoke, he sifted through a tray of sticky pastries until he found a particularly appetizing bear claw. It was millimeters from his teeth when a manicured hand came out of nowhere and plucked it from his grasp. 

“No sweets,” Lecter said, handing Will a stick of celery and tossing the bear claw in the trash. “I need you to fit in your corset. Agent Katz, please keep him away from them. Use force if you have to.”

“You got it,” Beverly said. She picked up her sandwich again and winked at Will as she took a huge bite. Around a mouthful of meat and cheese, she said, “No one said being a woman is easy.”

Will grunted and crunched despondently on his celery. “You don’t know the half of it.”

*

By the time the day was through, Will had grown entirely desensitized to having Lecter’s hands all over him. 

He was not a man who particularly enjoyed being touched. Even during romantic encounters—which, it had to be said, tended to be few and far between—it took time for him to feel anything other than unease when skin touched skin. He spent so much time putting up forts that it was difficult to lower his barricades, even when he wanted to.

But between fitting him for a breastplate, cinching his waist, and teaching him how to tuck, Lecter had eroded those barricades completely. He’d seen Will naked more often in the last twenty-four hours than most of Will’s sexual partners had in the entirety of their relationship.

At one point during the highly embarrassing tucking tutorial, when Will had struggled to get the tape in the right place, Lecter had calmly reached between his legs and done it for him. He hadn’t asked first, but it also hadn’t been nearly as awkward as Will would have expected. It was no worse than a prostate exam. A little strange to feel another man touching him like that, but nothing worth getting upset over.

That wasn’t to say they had stopped fighting, of course. But at this point, Will knew he was fighting more out of reflex and anxiety than he was out of any genuine anger at Lecter’s behavior. Lecter was pushy, intrusive—but, above all, professional. Will couldn’t fault him for that.

It was approaching midnight, and he was standing on a small plinth in the middle of the hangar letting two seamstresses pin and adjust the last of his custom garments. They’d been hard at work since Lecter sent his measurements from the plane; two full racks of twinkling gowns and pretty day dresses sat ready and waiting to greet the cameras. 

Will was almost falling asleep where he stood. He had slept four hours out of the last forty-eight, and Lecter wouldn’t let him have coffee since it might stain his freshly whitened teeth. He was also intensely uncomfortable. The heels were back on to give the seamstresses an idea of how the garment would hang, and to get him used to standing in them for long periods; Lecter had barely let him out of them all day. He was also tightly tucked, despite his protestations that you couldn’t even see it beneath the dress. He was wearing silicone breasts and foam hip pads, a corset pulling in his waist. A wig cap kept his hair off his face. 

Throughout the endless parade of dresses he’d been made to try on and twirl in, he’d seen some of the guys taking pictures on their phones. Laughing at him behind their hands. He had no doubt that back at the office, his picture was already pinned to a dozen bulletin boards. Grumpy, scruffy, perpetual fuck-up Graham, frowning in a sequin gown. 

He was going to be the laughing stock of the bureau when he finally walked out on that stage. It didn’t matter if his posture was perfect and he managed to avoid tripping over his train; he’d still look like a fool in the eyes of all his colleagues. It was all Crawford would see when he looked at him. The hearing that would determine his future at the bureau would now be dominated by the image of him in false eyelashes and heels. 

Why had he ever agreed to this?

That panic was back, tight and painful in his chest. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. He could barely breathe. 

That’s when Lecter’s hand settled on his lower back, calm and steadying. Will blinked, the red veil of panic falling from his eyes. The seamstresses were gone, retreated to their sewing machines to make a few final adjustments before his curtain call. The hangar was quiet; none of the other agents were in sight. He was alone with Lecter.

“I want to do one full makeup test with the wig you’ll be wearing as your everyday hair,” Lecter said. “Then I’ll let you strip off and get some beauty sleep. Tomorrow is a big day, and I need you fresh.”

He offered his hand. Numbly, Will took it, allowing Lecter to help him off the plinth. The sequins on his dress rustled as he walked. The sound of his heels clacking against the concrete floor repeated back to him from the eaves. 

Lecter guided him to a makeup chair, then pulled up a stool and settled in front of him. With a flick of his wrist, he unrolled a velvet pouch filled with more brushes than Will could think of uses for. His fingers tapped the tops of bottles thoughtfully, before settling on a small jar and unscrewing the lid. 

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” he said, as he smeared something cold across Will’s cheeks. 

Will swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“I’m going to need you to open up to me,” Lecter said, picking up a brush. “I know we haven’t talked about the interview portion of the pageant yet, but a two word answer won’t cut it on stage.”

A riposte rose on Will’s lips, but he was too tired. He slumped in his seat, defeated.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said.

“Did I miss the part where you did want to do it? It must have been lost in all the bitching and moaning.”

Will fixed him with his signature glare, but Lecter was so focused on his work that he didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to care.

“Well?” he said, after Will’s silence became insolent. 

Will sighed. “They’re all going to laugh at me,” he muttered.

“They already laugh at you,” Lecter said. 

“Thanks. Really needed to hear that.”

Lecter made a small tutting sound, sweeping the brush down Will’s cheek. “They laugh because they don’t understand you, Will,” he said. "Haven’t you always dreamed of a moment where the laughter died in their mouths? Where they saw you for what you really were? Tilt your head for me, please.”

Will did as he was told swallowing. The sweep of the brush across his skin was oddly soothing. As was the light touch of Lecter’s fingers against his jaw. 

“Imagine how foolish they will feel if your bravery saves those girls’ lives,” Lecter continued, setting the brush down and selecting another. “And wouldn’t it feel so good to do it after snatching the crown?” 

He had hoped to make Will chuckle, to lure him out of the dread-filled space he’d clearly retreated to in his mind. But all he roused from the man was a slight quirk of his lips. He considered pressing the subject, but thought better of it. Will would talk to him when he was ready. Of that, Lecter had no doubt.

Instead, all he said was, “Please sit still while I contour your nose. Good boy.” 

Will drifted on the brink of sleep for a little while, kept awake only by the tickling sensation of the brush, the soft pad of the powder puff. He closed his eyes when instructed, and felt a strange thrill as Lecter put one hand under his jaw to hold him steady while he worked. 

One of the few physical gestures he’d always enjoyed unequivocally was the sensation of fingers moving through his hair. The length and curl seemed to encourage women to want to push their hands through it during sex, and it made him shiver in a way that was immensely pleasurable. For whatever reason, he was reminded of that now as Lecter picked out details around his eyes with a fine eyeliner brush. He could feel Lecter’s warm breath against his face. Smell the cologne on his wrists. 

In a strange way, Will supposed this was the most intimate he’d been with another person in quite some time. And that was very sad indeed.

“There,” Lecter murmured, almost to himself. “And now for the wig.”

Carefully, he lifted a flowing brown wig from its polystyrene mount and lowered it onto Will’s head. But as Will felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders, something inside him snapped. The serene, shivery feeling Lecter’s touch had brought on vanished, replaced by the hot panic he’d been biting back since the moment he got here. 

It was all too much. This wasn’t just dress-up and play pretend. In just a few short hours, he had to do this in front of people whose lives revolved around critiquing others. They’d spot him for what he was, an impostor, and he’d be sent home in disgrace, the sound of laughter following at his heels. 

Best case scenario, he’d lose his job. But if he failed and the Dragon took another life, Will didn’t know what he’d do. He thought he might lose his mind.

His chest constricted; the corset suddenly felt too tight, the sequins of the dress scraping like nails across his skin. His fingers reached up to claw at his throat as he began to hyperventilate; stopping instead at his chest, he attempted to tear the silicone breast forms free, but his hands trembled so violently he couldn’t seem to grasp them. He couldn’t breathe. Why had he let Lecter do this to him? He was a  _ joke _ . He couldn’t save those girls. He couldn’t save anybody. 

He couldn’t even walk properly in heels. 

And then Lecter’s hands were on his shoulders, his grip firm and reassuring, and his piercing eyes were staring deep into Will’s. 

“Will,” he said. “I need you to breathe.”

Will screwed his eyes shut, feeling two hot tears streak down his face. Lecter’s hands felt remarkably cool against his flushed skin. 

“This was a mistake,” he managed to choke out. “They should never have trusted me to do this.”

Lecter evaluated him for a moment. “Stand up. Come with me.”

He pulled Will out of the chair before he could protest, putting a hand on the small of his back to steady him and propel him forward. They stopped in front of one of the floor-length mirrors. Will stared at his feet, his breath hitching out of him in small sobs.

“Look at yourself,” Lecter said.

“Please. Don’t make me.”

“Will. Look.”

Will raised his head, fresh tears quivering in the corners of his eyes. His breath caught in his throat. 

If Lecter had not been standing behind him, he would not have believed the figure in the mirror to be him. 

“See how magnificent you are,” Lecter murmured. 

The woman Will saw reflected before him was beautiful. Her chestnut hair fell in gentle waves around her bronzed shoulders. The custom gown she was wearing fell in a shimmering wave around her body, accentuating her slim waist and the alluring curve of her hips. Her soft pink lips were parted in surprise. A mascara tear trailed down each cheek, dramatic and faintly absurd. 

“You strike me as a man who has never felt comfortable in his own skin,” Lecter said. “Drag is many things, Will, but above all else, it is an escape. When you get into drag, at least for a little while, you cease to be you. You can be anybody. You can escape the tremendous amount of fear you deal with every day, and step into the shoes of someone confident. Someone happy.”

He hesitated, then reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a photograph. It took a moment for Will to tear his eyes away from the mirror when Lecter handed it to him, but when he looked at it, he could not look away.  

The woman pictured was truly breathtaking. She wore a gown of coal-black velvet that clung to her tall, supple frame. The neckline was encrusted with sparkling red jewels that seemed to drip like blood down her chest, before pouring in a glittering cascade down one side of the fabric to pool where it met the floor. In her hands, a bouquet of roses. Atop her sleek head, a shining crown. 

Will couldn’t imagine anyone more beautiful. Then he noticed the distinctive high cheekbones, and suddenly, it clicked.

“This is  _ you _ ?”

Lecter offered a fond smile. “I told you. I was quite stunning in my day.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yes, I heard that a lot. It is remarkably liberating, you know, to be able to step out of your skin and try on another. I think, given time, you will grow to like it.”

“What were you running from?” 

“Excuse me?”

Will looked up from the photograph to meet the same bewitching brown eyes. “You said drag is an escape. So what were you running from?”

Lecter plucked the photo from his fingers and tucked it back out of sight.

“Perhaps, should we ever become friends, I’ll tell you about it,” he said.

*

It was zero seven hundred hours. Beverly was perched on the hood of the car, her jacket slung over her shoulders and her sunglasses on, giving her a calm poker face. 

Beneath them, she was anything but. The day was set to be a scorcher, and the skin under her cast had begun to itch. But that wasn’t the source of her agitation. 

She was anxious. There were about ten million things that could go wrong with this mission, and though she would never tell Will this, his ill temper was certainly one of them. He’d stuck by her side throughout the academy, and she’d trust him to the end of the earth. But this was her first ever task force, her first big shot at climbing that elusive ladder that was especially slippery for a woman in this field. If Will cost her this opportunity, she wasn’t sure there’d be another.

And now he was late. Perfect. Just what she needed.

Beside her, Price and Zeller stood with their arms folded across their chest, making a point of repeatedly checking their watches. 

“Unbelievable,” Price muttered. “We need to be in San Antonio in thirty minutes.”

“Where the hell is he?” Zeller said. “What could possibly be taking this long?”

That’s when the doors to the hangar were opened, and Hannibal Lecter strode out. 

Lecter was dressed in one of his favorite suits, a tasteful three-piece in cornflower blue over an eggshell shirt with a silk tie to match. In the heat of the Texas morning, the jacket was slung over one shoulder with an air of poised nonchalance. 

“Finally,” Price grumbled. “Where…”

The question stuck somewhere in the back of his throat as Lecter stepped aside to reveal the figure walking behind him. Price’s mouth fell open, followed seconds later by Zeller’s. Beverly peered over her shades to get a better look. 

After letting him get a few merciful hours of sleep the night before, Lecter had roused Will at five am to get him ready for his official reveal. For the occasion, he’d dressed Will in a short lavender dress that clung to every perfectly padded curve and showed off his slim, tanned legs. His “everyday” wig blew around his face in the light breeze. A tasteful silver pendant hung around his throat. 

Lecter took him lightly by the wrist and led him toward the others. Will was perhaps a little wobblier on his feet than was ideal, but otherwise, Lecter was immensely proud of his work.

“Will?” Zeller said, seemingly unable to close his mouth. “Is that you?”   


Will blew a strand of hair away from his face. “I’m in a dress, my feet hurt, I’ve barely slept, I’m starved, and I’m armed. Don’t mess with me.”

He breezed right past them and opened the passenger side door of the car, not quite managing to avoid flashing a glimpse of his underwear as he climbed in.

“Dr. Lecter…” Beverly said, momentarily speechless. “Nice work.”

“Thank you.”

Grabbing Price and Zeller, Bev headed toward the surveillance van. They would be travelling separately to the hotel; it would not do to have the other contestants see Will with this strange entourage. From now on, other than a voice in Will’s ear, he would largely be alone with Hannibal. 

Which, Hannibal reflected, did not seem like such a bad thing at all. 

He turned his eyes to Will, who was staring back at him sulkily from the passenger’s seat, still grumpy about his early wake-up call and denied request for coffee. Lecter smiled. 

God, he was good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, these two.


End file.
